


14.) Jeans Formula for Instability

by KrisRix



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: "Jeans Baz", Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, M/M, Meet the Family, POV Alternating, Secret Relationship, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-27 04:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20401627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: Baz tries a new tactic. Simon tries on his clothes. They both try to stay alive.Summer at Pitch Manor is a search for equilibrium in the face of anxious instability.





	14.) Jeans Formula for Instability

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to chapter 14 of the Carry On Round Robin! 💖 My trope is _"Jeans, Baz."_
> 
> Please check out the previous 13 chapters first~ Each author has to build off the works of their peers, while also working in a randomly assigned trope! It's been extremely fun to see how the story's coming together!
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to [@BasicBathsheba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasicBathsheba/pseuds/BasicBathsheba) for organizing this project, and to [@tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) for all the support and beta work!
> 
> My title is from the Jeans instability concept in stellar physics 💫

**BAZ**

I hesitate to say there's anything _good_ about this blasted sticking spell Snow's cursed us with. However, always needing to stay within arm's reach of each other means that no one in my family can pull me aside to inquire after my plan. 

As if this is all some elaborate plot of _my_ doing. Not another example of Snow's failure as a magician and the Mage's gross incompetence in knowing how to train his pet project. The fact the Mage hasn't responded to a single one of the messages sent on this matter is only further evidence. His negligence is infuriating.

Not that I ever thought he had Simon's best interests at heart, given the summer holidays in the care homes.

That's most certainly Snow's silver lining in this: not having to spend the summer rotting away. Not all of the summer, at least.

Once this spell wears off, there will be no reason for him to stay. He'll be shipped off to some hellhole in Lancashire, or wherever it is he goes, and I'll be stuck here, cleaning up his mess.

_Our _mess, really. It's not the sticking spell I'm going to be interrogated about; it will be about the rumours of my relationship with Snow.

I'm not sure who I'm most terrified to be pulled aside by, my father or Daphne.

I'll drive myself mad if I dwell on it. While torturous angsting is something I'm quite skilled in, I don't have the faculties for it right now—not when I have to spend every moment within five feet of Simon Snow.

(I wonder if his usual heat gets more out of hand in the summer months. I wonder if he'll grow so hot, I'll combust from my proximity to him.)(What a wonderful way to go, really.)

I need to stay as far away from him as we’re able. We can’t be rolling about Pitch Manor, giggling and kissing like lovestruck fools.

I have no real plan on how to handle any of this.

All I know is that I absolutely _cannot_ allow myself to touch or kiss Simon Snow.

Fiona is borderline affable for the rest of the ride. There are no more personal attacks towards us—though she uses a good portion of the ride to slander the Mage. I don't think that's why Snow's looking so green by the time we arrive.

I sneer at him as we get out of the car. Being nauseous with nerves is _my _thing.

"If you sick up on my father," I say to him, "he'll consider it a declaration of war."

Snow pulls his bag out and slings it over his shoulder, movements sluggish. "Just get carsick,” he mumbles.

"What?" I hiss. "You should have said so."

"I wasn't about to ask Fiona if I could sit in the front, now was I?"

"Good," Fiona says, slamming her door. "I wouldn't let you; I don't like you _ that _ much."

I can't help my expression of shock. "You like him at all?" I baulk.

Fiona ignores me and strides up to the house. Snow gives me a cheeky grin.

"_She likes me_," he whispers. "Pitches must have a weak spot for me."

I bare my teeth at him. "That won't save you from everyone else in the house."

That wipes the smirk off his face.

I grab my bags and stalk off. Simon—the cat—trots behind me, tail in the air. Snow sputters and scrambles to keep up.

Vera has our luggage taken away, and I lead Simon and Snow to the library. I sink into the sofa and breathe deep.

_ Home. _

"Careful, Chosen One," Fiona says as she passes the doorway, _just _as Snow's starting to take a seat next to me. “The furniture bites."

Snow shoots straight up in horror. Fiona cackles the whole way down the hall.

"_She likes you_," I mock when Snow turns wild eyes to me. He's immediately sputtering. "Oh, be quiet and sit down, you numpty. Of course the furniture doesn't bite."

Snow grumbles and (carefully) lowers himself onto the cushion next to me. Once his rear is mere millimetres from the seat, I say: "Though, it _ is _ haunted."

He tenses dramatically; I toss my head back in a cackle of my own. 

"You utter prick." Snow flops down and elbows me hard, only making me laugh more.

"Basilton."

My father's astringent voice strips me of all humour immediately. I hop to my feet and swiftly bring myself before him.

"Hello, father."

"Good to have you home." He reaches out a hand to me; I grip it. His mouth is firmer than his shake.

"Thank you. It's good to be back.”

Father slides his gaze over my shoulder. I swallow down a wave of anxiety and make sure my voice is perfectly even when I speak:

"Father, this is Simon Snow."

**SIMON**

I'm only just starting to figure out the Pitches. Baz is a constant piece of work, but I like him a lot—even when he's laughing at my expense. And even though Fiona's a bitch, I can handle her well enough, it seems.

I've no idea how to handle _this_, though. Malcom Grimm, I mean.

Baz's whole demeanour changed when Mr. Grimm came into the room, giving me whiplash. I haven’t seen this Baz, all ramrod straight and expressionless and cold, in quite a while. Not since I started seeing him in a new light. 

I gulp and step forward when Baz introduces me.

“Nice to meet you, sir.” I jerk my hand out towards him. “Sorry about, um, intruding. With, um. From the spell.” _ Merlin_.

Mr. Grimm gives my hand a stiff shake. “It was out of your control. I hope you’re able to be comfortable during your stay with us.”

It feels like a threat.

I’ve spent my summers hot and starving and bruised and lonely.

This family can do their worst.

“So do I, sir.” I give him a smile. “The Mage and I will be in your debt.”

Mr. Grimm’s mouth twitches, and it feels like victory.

“I’ll give you some time to settle in,” he says, stepping back. He gives Baz a look that’s probably some kind of secret code, then slips out of the room.

Baz waits a beat before wheeling on me with wide eyes.

“_What was that?”_ he hisses.

I shrug. “Thought he’d like that.”

“You’re _ mad_.” I can’t tell if Baz wants to punch me or kiss me, and that feels like victory, too.

“Oh, good,” I say, grinning. “I’ll fit right in.”

* * *

Turns out Fiona wasn’t kidding when she said Baz’s stepmum was making roast beef for dinner. Roast beef’s my favourite. Doubt Mrs. Grimm knows that—feels like a good sign anyways. 

Meeting Baz’s family is weird. Sitting down to dinner with them is a whole other level.

I don’t know if this is a _‘welcome home, Basilton’_ kind of dinner or a _‘let’s fatten up our guest before the sacrifice’_ kind of dinner. Merlin, maybe this is just _normal_ for them. Suppose I’ll find out, given I might be here a little while.

There’s more food at this one meal than I’d see all _week_ at the care homes. Proper table settings, too. The seven year old has better table manners than me.

I still can’t believe Baz has siblings, even though he’s told me a little about them. He’s always seemed like the brooding, lone child type—hard to picture him as a loving older brother.

Though, given the way his sister greeted him earlier, ‘loving’ might not be a big part of their dynamic.

_ “Basilton, you’re back!” She tumbled into the library, eyes wide. It took me a minute to even realize they must be related—Baz takes after his mum. “Did you really bring the Chosen One?” _

_ I smiled and gave her a little wave. “Hullo.” _

_ “Don’t call him that,” Baz snapped. “Snow, this is Mordelia.” _

_ “Crowley,” she marvelled. _

_ Baz clucked his tongue.“Father’s going to spell your mouth clean if he hears you say that.” _

_ “I doubt it.” Mordelia cocked her head at me, dragging her gaze up and down. I didn’t know little kids could scrutinize _anything_ that__ hard. “He’s in too much of a snit about the Chosen One to notice anything _ I _ do.” She flashed a wide grin at me—one of her canines was missing. (My immediate thought was maybe a fang would replace it. Which Baz would kill me for even thinking.) “Thanks for messing up so badly, Chosen One.” _

_ “Um,” I said, “you’re welcome?” _

_ “Go away, you little toad,” Baz grunted at her. _

Now, Mordelia’s sat across from me, analyzing my every movement. They might not look alike, but she’s a mini-Baz in other ways.

There’re even littler siblings, too. Twins, with absolutely ridiculous names I can’t quite recall. At least their table manners are worse than mine. (I do realize that’s a bit pathetic, given they’re toddlers. I’ve got to take whatever victories I can.)

Seems like Baz has another sibling on the way, too. Daphne, his stepmother, has the beginnings of an obvious baby bump.

I never met a pregnant woman before. Not really. That’s kind of a stupid thing to think about, but it’s true. When Baz introduced us, I couldn’t stop staring at her belly.

_ Baz eventually agreed to show me more of the house than just the library. I started regretting that pretty fast—the place was huge. I’d need to stay here for weeks to get the layout down. (A terrifying concept, no matter how much I want to spend the hols with Baz.) _

_ Everything was comically villainous, too. Gothic (“It’s Victorian,” Baz snapped at me) and dark and expansive. Fucking gargoyles carved into the railings. And Baz wasn’t fucking with me—the manor actually _is_haunted. _

_ Baz only showed me the ground floor, and I was already overwhelmed. The only rooms I nailed down the location for were the loo (stupidly posh) and the kitchen (like something out of a House & Garden magazine). _

_ The kitchen is where I met Daphne. She was sitting at the island with her laptop. I could smell the roast beef in the oven. _

_ “Hello, Mother,” Baz said from the doorway, with a much kinder voice than the one he used with his dad. Hearing him call her ‘mother’ threw me for a loop. _

_ “Oh, Basil!” Daphne pushed herself off the stool, and that’s when I saw that she was pregnant. “Welcome home, dove.” _

_ When Baz approached her, she pressed a kiss to each of his cheeks. Something in my chest squeezed. _

_ “And you,” she said with a bright glance my way, “must be Simon Snow.” _

_ “N-nice to meet you, ma’am.” _

_ I stood as far back as the spell would allow me to be separated from Baz. I’d no idea how to greet her. Shaking her hand didn’t seem right—though I think Penny would yell at me for thinking that. And anyway, her warm demeanor was confusing. I figured it had to be a trick. Get the motherly pregnant woman to lure the orphan in and lower his defenses so that Fiona and Mr. Grimm could attack. _

_ I broke out in a guilty sweat just from thinking that. _

_ Either Baz could tell I was panicking and was taking pity on me, or he was just as nervous as I was, because it was only a few moments later when he ushered me out to continue the tour. _

Daphne’s at one head of the table, giving me and Baz all sorts of glances throughout dinner. Not the same kinds of looks that Mordelia’s giving us—these are more uncomfortable.

Of course, Mr. Grimm’s at the other end, and he’s shooting stares our way, too.

Baz, meanwhile, refuses to look at me at all. He simply keeps passing food to me, bypassing his own plate, and otherwise acts like I’m not there.

In short, dinner’s awkward.

Thank magic for Fiona’s inability to stay quiet for more than two minutes. Her jabs at my spell mishap actually become_ welcome_. Anything’s better than all the silence and staring. Christ, no wonder Baz is the way he is.

The food’s fucking marvellous, though.

**BAZ**

Father attempts to pull me aside into his study after dinner. Given Snow and I can’t be separated, whatever father wants to say, he’ll have to say it in front of both of us.

Except he comes up with the genius idea of shutting Snow just outside the door and then casting a silencing spell over the room.

“Father,” I say, trying not to seem too desperate, “you know how volatile Snow’s magic is. He would barely have to think about eavesdropping for it to happen.”

He thins his lips and his brow drops. Mordelia was right—he really is in a snit.

“Do you have a plan, Basil?” he murmurs, as if whispering might help. “I need to know what it is.”

I can keep my face impassive, and I can swallow back the nausea; ceasing from breaking out into a cold sweat is a different story. I pray to Seuss he doesn’t notice.

What do I even say? Certainly not the _truth_. That I’m so blinded with love for the Mage’s dog that I’m willing to sacrifice my family’s values—my _mother’s_ values.

I flex my jaw. “There’s no plan,” I whisper. “Snow’s magic is a perpetual menace; he’s bollocksed up every plan I’ve ever had. I’m trying a new tactic.”

Father’s eyes narrow. “Which is?”

“Friendship,” I say. It takes unfathomable effort not to collapse from even this half-confession. “Snow’s an imbecile. He follows the Mage because he has no one else to follow. We can change that. And it’s as he said—if we’re good to him, the Mage will be in our debt.”

Father only stares at me. Then he turns on his heel and begins fixing himself a drink. I don’t move from the door. Neither of us says anything for a long while.

“I’ll speak with the Families,” he finally says, voice tight, back to me. “Goodnight, Basil.”

“Goodnight, Father.”

Once I open the door and am just that much out of Father’s sight, I throw myself down the hallway and up the stairs to my room. Snow is calling after me and running to keep up.

I shut the door to my room behind us, lean heavily against it, and try to remember how to breathe.

“Baz…?”

“Shut up.”

Snow has decided over these past few weeks, especially since the ball, that personal space no longer exists between us. He comes right up to me, crowding me against the door, and reaches out to touch my jaw.

Despite being magickally glued together, this is the closest we’ve been since this nightmare began.

I can’t allow him to touch me.

I plant my hand on his chest and shove him back. “Stop,” I hiss. “We can’t do this here.”

Snow scrunches up his nose—it’s infuriatingly cute. It makes me want to punch him. “We’re in your room, yeah? No one can see us.”

“That’s not the point.” I let my hand fall. Snow’s back in my space immediately. I sneer. “Didn’t you hear us talking in there?”

“No.” He reaches with both hands this time, cradling my neck and jaw.

“We were plotting against you,” I say. “We’ll murder you in your sleep.”

“Sure, Baz.” The incomparable fool, he lifts himself up onto his toes and kisses me.

“Why don’t you believe me?” I whisper against his mouth.

“Because I trust you.”

Simon Snow really does ruin all of my plans.

**SIMON**

The couch in Baz’s room is all made up for me. For now, we’re lounging on it, leaning into each other even though he says we can’t. Daphne brought up a plate of food for Baz, so he’s eating that and letting me steal bites from him, all the while complaining about my closeness, as if he’s not the one who just pressed his thigh against mine. 

He still puts a hand over his mouth when he eats. I told him he’s got nothing to hide, I’ve seen it all. (Though he’s still rightfully miffed about the invisibility-stalking, so I drop it.)

Makes me sad he doesn’t feel comfortable enough to eat around his family. I don’t know much about family dynamics, but it doesn’t seem right that he has to act like a different person around them.

I’m glad I get to see the real Baz. With his mirthful glares, and little snorts when he gets laughing too much, and his relaxed shoulders, and his puffy cheeks when his fangs come out. 

Not much of that Baz in sight since Fiona picked us up, but I know he’s in there. Every time I give him a grin or a kiss, he pulls in a breath in this particular way that makes his nostrils flare. It’s weirdly cute.

I’m just starting to get Baz softened up to me again, melted into the couch. He’s lying back, dishes on the floor, and I’m leaning over him, snogging him until we’re breathless.

Then he’s suddenly pushing me and scuttling back.

“What—”

“I need,” he breathes, “a minute.”

I gulp. I can feel how hot my neck and face are. I kind of need the time-out too, honestly, but—

“_Crowley_,” Baz groans, rubbing his hands over his face. He leaps up from the couch, going for the door.

I wince as the first pangs of pain shoot through my head. “Baz, wait—”

He doesn’t say anything, just rushes down the stairs and keeps on rushing, right through the kitchen and out the back door into the night. I have to jog to keep up with him.

“Baz!”

He doesn’t listen. He sweeps across the grounds gracefully while I pant and bumble behind him.

It’s as he leads me into the woods along the property, I start to realize what’s about to happen.

“Don’t watch,” he hisses at me over his shoulder. He sounds so upset—I stop dead in my tracks.

I _want _to watch. I want to see how he does it, what he looks like—

“I won’t,” I swear. I put a hand over my eyes and reach my other one out for him. “I won’t.”

Eventually, I feel his cold hand around my own, and he brings me along for his hunt. I stop moving when he drops my hand, and then there’s all sorts of sounds—footfalls, a slight struggle, and a long moment of near silence, where I have to strain to hear the soft sounds of his swallows.

When Baz takes my hand again, it’s much warmer. He takes my other hand too, pulling it away from my eyes. I open them to find him giving me this confused, pinched glare.

I smile at him. His nostrils flare.

**BAZ**

When I wake the next morning, I spend a moment hoping that my being stuck to Snow will all have been a bad dream and that I’ll wake to an empty room.

I can smell him, though. Warm and sweet like always, mingled with the scent of my soaps he used when showering last night. It’s disturbingly good to have some of my scent on him. It makes me want to rub up against him like the cat does to me—mark him with my smell.

_ Aleister Crowley. _ This spell better wear off soon. I’ll go mental if we don’t die first.

I lock myself (and the cat) in the bathroom to be away from Snow, despite that requiring waking him up with a headache. I hear him groan and then flop right outside the door.

I take my time getting ready for the day. Pain comes and goes as I move about through the bathroom—it’s quite a bit larger than our en suite in the tower. I also assume Snow is moving about my bedroom, also getting ready, because sometimes the pain comes without my doing.

Indeed, by the time I exit, Snow is wearing a worn blue tee shirt (not a nice blue—it does nothing to bring out his eyes) and scuffed up jeans. He’s a travesty, truly.

“_Baz_.” Snow’s gawking at me.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “We’re still trapped together, yes.”

Snow shakes his head and continues to stare. “No, you— what the _ fuck_, that’s so unfair.”

“What are you on about now?” Is he staring at my crotch? I think I might combust. That would certainly put an end to this spell of his.

“How come—?” he blathers. “Why do you—? Why do _ those—_?”

“Crowley, Snow, spit it out!”

“_Jeans, Baz_,” Snow chokes. “How come you look so _ bloody good _ in jeans?”

I’m glad I didn’t feed too deeply last night. I clear my throat.

“You’ve seen me in jeans before,” I point out. Though, he stared at me oddly then, too. I figured it was the alcohol.

“These are a different pair,” Snow says, and I have to clear my throat again. He finally tears his gaze away from me (I’m almost disappointed) to look down at himself. “Why don’t they look like that on me?”

“Because you dress like an urchin,” I sneer.

“Let me borrow a pair!”

I snort. “It’s bad enough we’re stuck together; you’re _ not _ about to start borrowing my clothes.” (_Again_.)

Snow’s not listening. He’s already rooting around my closet despite my protests. 

“Merlin and Morgana!” I hiss when he starts undoing his own jeans and pushing them down. I whip my back to him as fast as I can. “You’re a horrible little gremlin, Snow! The Anathema can’t protect you from me here.”

“Oh, piss off,” he says, sounding far too pleased with himself. “I just want to try them on.”

“I despise you.” Seething at him is usually a good distraction against my yearning, though it’s not nearly helpful enough when I know Snow is behind me in only his pants, shimmying into _my_ clothes.

“See!” he yaps. “They don’t look the same on me at all!”

Against my better judgement, I turn around. Snow’s right, they don’t look the same on him. The inseam is too long; the fabric bunches at his ankles. He’s also wider than me, causing the waistband to dig into his skin and the button to span.

Snow grumps and offers me a back view as well. “Right?”

His arse looks bloody fantastic.

I grind my teeth together and regard the pathetic lump on the floor that is his own pair of jeans.

“Are those the only bottoms you own that aren’t chavvy trackies?” I ask.

Snow scowls. “Wh— Yeah.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Get dressed, Snow. We’re going shopping.”

* * *

Shopping with Snow starts off as a disaster. He fights me on every little thing (_“I can’t afford this”, “I’m not letting you buy things for me”, “I’d rather die than wear that”_, et cetera, ad nauseam.)

I manage to convince him that I’m buying the clothes for _me_. If I have to stare at him all summer, then I want the best view possible. That makes him jut his chin out at me—and then yank me into the dressing room to snog me stupid.

In the end, the excursion is a success. Snow ends the morning with a modestly sized wardrobe which still suits his personal taste (looser fits, urban stylings, nothing ‘posh’), I end the morning with a well-dressed almost-boyfriend, and we both end it with tousled hair and sore lips.

It almost makes me think being glued to Snow might work out to be okay after all.

I’m mulling over just that as we leave the bistro where I took him to lunch. Snow polished off his own food and some of mine; I grab what’s left as takeaway to eat in the car. As we make our way to the parking spot, it dawns on me that Snow’s trailed a fair bit in front of me. I must have slowed my pace at some point to appreciate the fit of his new trousers.

I stop walking. Snow keeps going.

He’s easily a few metres from me when hot pain begins to drill into my skull. He groans and grabs his head.

Snow’s had a perpetual twinkle in his eyes ever since our shopping outing became more enjoyable for him. (_“This feels like a date," _he whispered to me cheekily over lunch.) But when he turns around to find where I’ve gone, I see the light in his eyes go out as realization hits him.

The spell is fading.

**SIMON**

My stomach drops through the floor. All I can hear is the thudding of my heart in my ears.

No. Not yet—

Baz begins walking towards me. The pain disappears, but my panic remains.

“Come along, Snow,” Baz says. He takes my elbow and leads me the rest of the way to the car. “I promised my siblings I’d spend the afternoon with them.”

There’s no way Baz didn’t notice it.

But if he’s not going to mention it, then I definitely won’t.

* * *

We spend the rest of our day with Mordelia and the twins (Ophelia and Acantha. Baz had to remind me four times). We play games, and Baz and I take turns reading them books.

Mordelia’s still pretty intimidating, but as we play, she starts acting more and more like what you’d expect of a kid. I stop seeing her as just one of many in a household that wishes I were dead.

It’s...nice. It’s actually _really _nice. I like kids. I’m used to spending my summers with a whole house full of children. As I got older, I tried to spend as much time as possible near the littluns; the older boys were too easy to get into scraps with. I could trust myself around the younger kids (even if they were afraid of me).

And I adore seeing Baz like this. Turns out he _is_ a loving older brother. Like everything with Baz, his true nature only comes out once I’ve learnt to look for the right signs.

I stay extra close to Baz for the rest of the day. I don’t want anyone else to find out that my stupid spell is wearing off. I can only imagine what Fiona or Mr. Grimm would do if they knew.

Dinner’s less elaborate tonight, but not by much. It’s a bit less awkward, too. Now that the kids have warmed up to me some, Mordelia’s more talkative—and not just to laugh and jeer along with Fiona.

Mordelia tells her mum about the silly voices I used when reading the twins their favorite book. She wants me to reenact it for the table, and I figure I’ve got nothing to lose, so I do it wholeheartedly. The kids squeal, Fiona laughs _at_ me, and Daphne seems to be truly delighted. Even Baz has a little smirk on his lips; he snorts and tries to cover it with a cough. Mr. Grimm doesn’t look the least bit amused, but I don’t mind.

The rest of the night goes the same as the first: Daphne brings food for Baz, he shares it with me while we get tangled on the couch, and I hide my eyes when he has to go out to hunt.

I squeeze his hand tight every chance I get.

* * *

I wake with the sun, seriously needing to piss.

I stumble my way towards Baz’s bathroom. I only get a few steps before my skull feels like it’s being stabbed with a hot poker.

“_Fucking hell, Snow—!_” Baz snarls from where he’s curled up in his bed.

“Sorry!” I drag myself towards him and grip his foot. The cat meows at me unhappily. (Jerk.) “Need the loo.”

“Hell of a way to wake someone up,” he hisses.

“You did it to me yesterday,” I point out.

And that’s when it dawns on both of us:

Yesterday, Baz and I were able to get ready on either side of the bathroom door with manageable discomfort. But...today’s worse.

Baz narrows his eyes at me. “_Now _ what did you do?”

“Nothing!” I insist. “Didn’t even hum the song in my head or anything!”

“You’re a disgrace to magic, Simon Snow.”

* * *

The next two weeks at Pitch Manor go similarly.

We wake each other up when one of us needs the loo. Some mornings, I even get to wake up with Baz in my arms. It’s not the most comfortable thing, squeezing two teenage boys onto a couch all night, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

We join his siblings and Daphne for breakfast. (Mr. Grimm leaves early for work, and Fiona doesn’t leave her room until well past noon.)

Most days, we spend our time with the kids or relaxing in the library or exploring the grounds.

Sometimes we go into town, and it always feels like a date. I let the back of my hand brush his when I’m sure no one will see, and the thrill’s yet to get old.

We always eat dinner with his family. It’s more and more comfortable every time. On Sundays, they get all dressed up.

My shopping trip with Baz definitely didn’t fill in that gap in my wardrobe. (I’m still wrapping my head around having more than just the essentials—having _options_. Clothes that I picked out, and didn’t come from the Wellbeloves or a charity shop.) 

Baz lends me one of his suits. The fit’s not as off as his jeans were, though I do need to cuff the trousers. Otherwise, I think I look rather good. (Baz even says as much—I give him a long kiss for that.)

All that’s still happening, too. We’re still kissing, but only in secret, in his room, when he’s sure the door is locked. (I’ve tried to push my luck in the library, but he clocked me in the head with a book, so I’ve given up on that for now.)

Baz is still wearing jeans. Apparently, he wears them often, I’ve just never seen him out of uniform all that much. He usually fucks off with his mates on the weekends. Or I’ve fucked off with Penny or the Mage.

Speaking of: Penny and I talk on the phone pretty regularly, which is surreal and amazing—I’ve never been able to talk with her over the summer before. (There’s still no word from the Mage.)

Baz and I spend the evenings in his room where we can touch and kiss. I feel so spring-loaded by the end of the day, I nearly pounce on him once I hear the lock of the door. How could I not, after being denied him all day, while he’s wearing those maddening jeans? It’s torture to not be allowed to touch him while stuck to his side.

The spell’s still in effect too. Sort of.

Baz and his dad are tearing their hair out over it. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the spell. I’ve never had one of my misfires last this long before.

It’s strange. One day, we can get a bit further apart than before, and the next day, we’ll be back to a strict five-foot rule.

Baz and Penny have got this theory the spell’s acting like a rubber band. We’re stretching it as the days go on until it’s pushed to its limit and snaps back.

Which means, they say, the rubber band ought to stretch out more and more over time. Lose its elasticity. Maybe even snap.

Baz wants to experiment with it every day. He’s set up markers out back, so he can keep track of the distances, look for a pattern, whatever.

I hate it. Makes me feel like a test subject. It also makes me all itchy, my magic buzzing under my skin. (Or maybe that’s just anxiety.)

I get we can’t stay like this forever. And yeah, it’s real inconvenient sometimes. (Pretty embarrassing to have to spend a long while in the bathroom, knowing someone’s got to sit outside until you finish.)

But this is the best summer of my life. I’m terrified it’s going to end before I’m ready.

I know I shouldn’t, but I _ like _ Baz’s family. I’ve not made any progress with Mr. Grimm, and Fiona and I have our ups and downs, but it’s _good_.

The kids are amazing—smart as whips and always ready to play pranks on Baz with me. (Sometimes Fiona joins in. That’s when things get a bit dangerous, but everyone's still got their fingers and toes, so I guess it’s all right.)

And Daphne really seems to like me. She let me touch her belly once when the baby started kicking. I don’t know what came over me, but I teared up.

I think she can tell Baz likes me, too. She gives him these little looks sometimes. I don’t know.... Maybe that’s just the way mums look at their kids.

He calls her ‘mother’, and she calls him ‘dove’.

And she calls _me_ ‘dear’.

And it’s all— Well.

It’s all just _really nice_.

So, of course I don’t want to leave.

It’s all I can think about some nights, as I’m trying to fall asleep. Especially on the nights when Baz drags himself to bed, rather than letting me snog him to sleep on the couch.

I’m lying there now. Baz’s room is warm, too warm for my liking, and he’s not in my arms to cool me down. My magic is buzzing below my skin, making me warmer. And all I can think is _ ‘please—please just give me one more day’_.

* * *

In the morning, when Baz wakes up because the cat is kneading on his chest, and I slip off to go to the loo, we realize the rubber band’s snapped back. Whitehot pain bursts through my head.

That’s when it hits me.

The reason the spell doesn’t make any sense is because it’s _me_.

I mean, more than in the usual way.

It’s because _I’m _the one yanking Baz back to me whenever he gets too far.

I’m trapping him to me. Trapping his whole family to me.

All because I’m fucking terrified of what will happen if I don’t.

(_Baz will leave you. You violated his space again. The Mage will come. He’ll throw you in care. Baz will let him. Peace will end. The next time you see this family, it will be on the battlefield.) _

I clutch the frame of the bathroom door and gulp in air as my magic and anxiety catch up to me, suffocatingly thick.

**BAZ**

I grit my teeth against the blinding headache and all but fall out of my bed to get to Snow. The menace, he’s not even moving from the bathroom door.

“Snow?” I grunt. As I get closer, the pain subsides enough that my other senses can kick in.

Smoke. He smells like smoke.

I grasp his shoulder. “_Snow_. What’s wrong?”

“I—” Snow shakes his head, but doesn’t turn to me.

I yank him around to face me. “Don’t you dare go off in my room, Snow.”

His eyes are wide and looking at anything other than me. “I-I won’t.”

“I’m flammable, you nightmare. Steady on.”

Snow wrenches himself back, out of my hold. “I need—”

He’s never been the one to pull away first.

He’s scaring me.

“Simon,” I say softly, then again, firmer. “_Simon_. Look at me. What’s wrong?”

Simon—the human—swallows showily and snaps his eyes to me. (Simon the cat is hissing and clawing at my bedroom door, terrified by the smokey stench.)

“I need to go,” Simon blurts. “Baz. I need. I can’t. I fucked up. Again. I need. I need _ to go_.”

I quirk my brow at him. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, but we’re rather stuck together these days.”

Simon’s expression crumples. I’ve never seen him look so...what? Haunted? Regretful? Empty?

There’s a deafening silence that falls over the room suddenly. Like the calm before the storm.

No.

It’s more like that heartbeat of a moment before a massive explosion. All the sound and air is sucked inwards. I thought that was fictitious, a trope only experienced in Hollywood films, but ever since Snow blew up that chimera, I realized that’s exactly what it feels like to be within his vicinity before he goes off.

I knew this summer would be the death of us. I just didn’t think it would be like _this_.

There’s nothing I can do, so I take a breath and keep my eyes locked on his. I want him to be the last thing I see—

Except it never comes.

Just this brief sucking sensation and then...nothing.

No release. Only calm.

Snow looks even more shaken. I’m shaken, too—my magic is trembling within me, as if it was drawn to Snow in that moment.

“I’m so sorry,” Snow whispers.

And then he runs off, barefoot, still in his pyjamas.

He runs, and the headache never comes. 


End file.
